


Fire and Ice, Sun and Moon, King and Queen

by fangirls5ever



Category: Voltron - Fandom, Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Allura is basically a dragon rider but with a lion, Allura is strong as heck, Alternate Universe, Arranged Marriage, Arranged Marriage!AU, Eventual Fluff, F/M, Fantasy AU, Gen, Slow Burn, War!AU, background Klance eventually, multi-chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-03-26 12:31:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13857831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirls5ever/pseuds/fangirls5ever
Summary: They were opponents, enemies, rivals, opposites.But above all, they were equals.---Arranged marriage au with lion-rider Allura and shadow-mage Lotor.





	1. Beginning

When dawn breaks on the 327th day of the war, Allura rises with her lion, dresses in her rose-stained armor, and rides out, broadsword strapped to her back, ready to kill.

She is Altea's princess, but first and foremost, she is a Rider, born with fire in her veins and a heart to match the lions her country prizes so much.

The soldiers guarding camp press their hands over their chests as she passes, murmuring, "Princess," as she looks to them, giving a brief nod in response.

Younger, she may have found her own reaction lacking, cold.

But that girl had been left in the Castle of Lions, crouched in a pool of blood, fingers combing through white hair as she sobbed and sobbed, clutching the body to her chest—

Blue growls in warning, and Allura brushes the memory away like cobwebs, feeling as though they cling to her skin, trailing from her fingertips.

She knows cannot avoid them forever.

But now, with her country's fate hanging in the balance, she doesn't have the luxury of breaking either.

She has only distance, and a form of apathy that keeps her moving, if not living.

The rose-colored slashes beneath her eyes seem to burn as Blue presses against the edges of her thoughts, a gentle purr its form of encouragement.

Running a hand affectionately through the lion's ruff, Allura takes in a deep breath, forcing the memories from her mind and locking them away, pulse steadying and emotions slowly numbing.

"Ready?" she asks her lion quietly, and reaches up, pulling a pale pink mask over her features, swirls of white curling like flowers around her eyes and out to the edges curved like a lion's ears.

Her armor's purpose is simple: protect from and soften blows.

Her mask's is simpler still.

Make her remembered, and make her feared.

And from the rumors she's heard of a reaper in the hues of sunset, the color to mourn the deaths of those that have fallen to her and soon will, she knows it serves its purpose.

Lingering at the edge of the camp, crouched low over her lion's back, Allura looks out across the valley, to where smoke rising from the Galra camp can be seen above over a sparse, gray-green forest. Connected with her lion's senses, she can almost sense the sentries hidden in the trees around it, black-and-violet armor traded for soft, earthy fabric in favor of stealth.

It makes no difference to Allura. With her heightened senses, she can detect them before they do any damage to her or Blue.

The only thing that changes is how easily they will bleed.

A growl rumbles through Blue's body as a familiar figure appears at the edge of the trees, sword in hand and the shadows of his generals hanging close. The space between the camps in the dip of the valley has long lost any vegetation, the plants being ground into the dirt by heavy combat boots and burned away to ash by fire mages on both sides. It is a wasteland, barren, broken, and entirely uncrossable for either side.

Not even a Rider could make it across the long stretch alive, though stars know she's tried.

But something tells her the Galra prince, with his night-sky skin and too-clever smile may just be the exception.

Raising one hand dismissively, his generals melt into the shadows, waiting for their chance to pounce as he strolls away from the tree line, yellow eyes flickering past Allura once, twice, before seizing on where she crouches along the edge of the valley, mask on and sword in hand

. 

Even from the distance, she can see the way his lips curl back in a smile that reveals too-sharp canines, the way that the shadows around his hand begin to thicken.

And again, the game has begun.

\---

The first time Lotor faced Allura, he had thought her a spirit, a whirlwind of steel and fire, blade flashing and lion snarling as she had leapt across the field towards him.

Only instinct and quick reflexes had made him roll to the side, sword swinging up to counter her attack as the lion rounded on him, snapping at a Galra soldier that moved to help his prince.

With blood staining her armor and blue light crackling over her skin, she was not beautiful in the way the fairytales he had read would say.

But she was fierce, fiery, and alive, alive, alive.

The feeling spread from her to her soldiers, bolstering their courage, giving them the strength to rush the enemy lines, to strive harder, fight for their country body and soul alike. She was life to those that needed it, a fire burning bright.

To win the war, to crush the troops' morale, Lotor knew she had to die.

And it would be done by his blade.

But though Lotor was clever, so was the princess; they would feint, parry, counter, dodge, all in sync, the steps of some strange, graceful dance. Even on the back of a lion, the prince matched Allura's speed, giving the creature a nasty slash along its slide as she launched herself up, bringing down her sword in a punishing arc that he only just sidestepped.

They were opponents, enemies, rivals, opposites.

But above all, they were equals.

Always striving to see the other fall.

Always forced to part when one side drew back, and the other found itself too broken to follow.

Fire and ice, sun and moon, life and death.

\---

Perhaps, Allura thinks as she shifts her weight forward, lion slinking down the edge of the valley, she shouldn't anticipate their battles the way she does—her life is at risk, any one mistake certain to be the end of her. Its disturbing that she awaits it keenly, the rush of adrenaline and focus on an equal opponent the one thing that truly drives everything from her mind.

For then, in one perfect moment, she feels nothing but burning desire and determination, a need to press on, improve, win.

For one perfect moment, she can forget the ghosts that haunt her, forget the memories so vividly impressed in her mind.

For one moment, she can almost be whole.

\---

Lotor watches as the princess prowls forward on her blue-gray lion, and smiles, sauntering casually down the edge of the valley.

His generals wait in the forest behind him, armed to the teeth and awaiting his signal. The princess won't allow herself to be drawn in range of arrows, he has long since learned, and has given up on much of his scheming—his generals are here only to force the lion from its master's side, and intervene if he falls.

Truly, he would be dead before they could reach him if he falters and the princess does not, but has little interest in increasing the generals' paranoia—it's odd enough that they've accepted this confrontation as a ritual, taking it in stride as though this is just another part of him.

And perhaps, in a way, it is.

The girl pauses halfway across the valley, lion snarling, as she waits for him, holding herself with poise against the lion's back. Even here, before the fight, he can feel the energy crackling from her in waves, shivering across his skin as he takes leisurely steps towards her.

This, he supposes, is why he continues their strange arrangement—his life is a collection of suppressed emotions, of enduring silent scorn and hateful glances. He is not the prince the Galra want, not a prince that they'll accept.

But here, as he moves closer and closer to where the princess waits, he can feel something pounding in each heartbeat, rushing through his veins, drowning out the voices that would question his worth, all for the sake of Altean blood.

Because the girl is life itself—he can feel it, pulsing around her, an intangible energy that gives to all that stand beside her.

And even if for a moment, he wishes to be near that sort of light, drawing close like a moth to a flame. It's magnetic, hypnotizing.

And he hates that he will be the one to kill it.


	2. Day 330—Shadow Prince

Much in the way that Allura is the heart of the Altean army, Lotor is the mind of the Galra's. This is what makes them so eager to kill the other, victory within their grasp if only their opponent was to fall.

And it is this that makes Lotor gather his generals in his tent on the 330th day just an hour before midnight, a map covered in fine writing spread before him and a vial of crystal poison beside where he sits cross-legged on the floor.

"Narti," he says, looking up to where the spy crouches just shy of the lamplight, cat familiar perched lightly on her shoulder. The golden-eyed cat's attention flits from Ezor's braid to him as he speaks, seeming to glow in the lowlight. "Your report?"

Narti inclines her head, and passes forward a paper bound in brown string, Ezor trying to peer at the words inside as she hands it to Lotor.

Lotor unties the string and casts it aside, eyes flitting over the neat writing. "So it has been set in place?" he says, and the generals lean in closer as his yellow gaze flicks up to them.

Narti bows her head, the cat watching the prince with too-keen eyes as she does.

Lotor's lips curve up in sharp-edges smile, the nearest shadows seeming to lean in close as he passes the report to Acxa. "The poison is slow-acting," he muses, "but I imagine the effects will become rather apparent with time." He taps a finger against his chin, the tip of it smooth and rounded, the claws he wears in battle hidden beneath his skin. "How much poison was administered?"

Narti curves her hand into a perfect circle.

And Lotor's smile becomes almost manic. "Continue to apply it to the source–it will reach their wells soon enough. And Ezor," he says, the smirking general flashing him a bright grin, "secondary to your work on the alliance, keep our troops away from the contaminated water. The last thing we need is our army dead by our own hands."

Odorless, colorless, and tasteless, even the princess and her precious lion will not be free of its effects.

Ezor presses her hand to her chest, gives a cheerful, "Vrepit sa," and stands, sauntering out of the tent as she heads back to camp.

"Zethrid," Lotor continues, the general dipping her head in acknowledgement, "send archers to watch the east side of camp—Narti's report noted a suspicious amount of Altean scouts marking the land there."

"Prince," his general growls, wicked smile in place, and follows Ezor out, knuckles cracking as she anticipates yet another battle.

When Lotor turns, opening his mouth to instruct Narti on her next assignment, he frowns, unsurprised but faintly annoyed to find the leader of his spies has already vanished.

Now, only Acxa is left, her posture rigid and expression well-restrained as she kneels beside him, watching as he turns back and traces the map with one finger, brows furrowed. Dark circles under his eyes have long since become a permanent fixture for the prince, violet bruises against lavender skin. 

It is not Acxa's place to care for him—she is a fighter through and through, and the prince will not welcome her worries. He will scorn her for such soft thoughts, scorn the idea that he is, in the end, mortal.

If she is smart, she will say nothing. 

But Acxa has stood aside too many times when her prince needs her help. She has watched from the forest's shadow as the Altean princess rained down blow after punishing blow, lion snapping at his heels and forcing him close to the sword she swings at his head, aiming to kill.

Acxa needs Prince Lotor alive, and giving him rest is all she can see to accomplish this.

"Rest now, prince," she says, watching how Lotor tenses at her voice. "You need to be in good form if you are to keep the princess's suspicions quieted. She'll know we're planning something if your form suffers for all the nights spent planning."

Lotor's gaze never rises from the map, but he clicks his tongue in distaste. "Your concerns are valid, Acxa, but understand that I cannot afford to rest now, not when victory may well be at hand."

"Prince, forgive me, but this plan will take months at best—surely you must sleep before then."

It's at this that Lotor pauses, golden eyes rising lazily to meet the blue-haired general's. She stiffens, but meets his gaze head-on, defiance etched across her features.

The prince will not die on her watch, by his own hand or another's.

The moment stretches out, tension crackling between them as Acxa's gaze matches the prince's.

He seems surprised at first, his general's insubordination making his temper flare as his pupils constrict to slits like those of a serpent. He does not take well to being challenged—he has fought for everything he has, forced to labor after the respect a full-blooded Galra prince might have had from birth.

He will not lose now, not to one of his own.

But Acxa waits, patient and expecting. Where Allura's eyes might have burned with fire, burned with a challenge, Acxa's are ice.

Cold, unforgiving, and merciless.

And in the end, she always wins.

Lotor looks away, gaze flitting again to the map.

"I will rest once I finish planning out the route to the last well," he mutters, fingertips twitching as the start of hazy claws dance along them.

Acxa watches, gaze cold and impartial. "Do I have your word on that, prince?"

Lotor licks dry, cracked lips, gaze still fixedly away from her. "Would I lie to you, general?"

She waits a moment longer, watching as he clenches and unclenches a fist, still cowed by the sheer volume of her presence.

Finally, convinced of his sincerity, she bows her head, rising to her feet.

"Vrepit sa."

\---

Lotor tries to keep his promise.

Truly, he does.

But the night is full of shadows that sing to the darkness that slithers through his veins, bidding him to come and play.

Exhausted as he is, Lotor is too weak to resist their call. So he rises from his creaking bed, pulls on mud-flecked leather boots and dons a cloak, keeping the cowl low over his head. He's an Altean half-breed, and as such, easily recognized.

And it wouldn't be well for the Galra to see their heir playing with the forest's shadows.

\---

Their voices grow louder as he steps outside the tent, letting out a deep exhale as he feels them press against his shoulders, play with the ends of his cloak, rub velvety fingers through his bound hair.

Lotor can't recall when he first heard the shadows sing to him, nor can he say why. Perhaps it was first born of the perversion of Altean magic mixing with Galra blood to form a hideous, twisted imitation of the light magic, a shallow mockery of what it could have been. This explanation fits his being well enough—a creature carried to a swift death by its own blood.

But another answer, one the prince has pushed to the dark corners of his mind, is this: the shadows first sang to him for the Altean magic in his veins, and the desperate need for companionship that was never given by the parent that vanished and the other that left him to rot.

He never dwells on this answer for long.

Any desire, even such a base one as a need for companionship, is a weakness. To foster one, tend to it, would be to further this weakness still. Lotor has no need of another to give him love. He needs his people to feel only two things towards him—respect, that they would never think of rising against him.

Or fear, so they would banish their thoughts of rebellion, and only be thankful that he was not an enemy.

An especially playful shadow tugs at his braid as he ducks away from the camp and into the deeper part of the forest, causing it to slip free of the ribbon he's tied it with and fall down over his back, one belligerent strand falling over his right eye.

Like this, the shadows remember him best.

He is the boy they comforted after nightmares, the one that climbed atop the castle parapet to better see the stars as he wove shadows around him and danced, hair glowing like starlight.

This is the child they love best, and they draw close to him, having grown strong in the nighttime.

"Hello," Lotor says, lips curving in a smile as the shadow of a songbird circles over his head, lighting on his shoulder with a snatch of velvet song. "Left your master for the night, have you?"

The shadow-bird makes a soft noise of assent, edging closer to rub silky feathers against his cheek.

Alone, the shadows seem to murmur. Alone, alone, alone.

Here, hidden from his people and enemies alike, the prince is free to cast aside any fear of weakness. The shadows will warn him of intruders, will hide him if need be. Here, the prince is safe until sunrise.

Raising a gloved hand to stroke the songbird's shadowy feathers, he murmurs, "Then show me the way."

\---

Allura dreams of an empty field when she sleeps, a vacant world in which she alone wanders. Even here, though, she can feel Blue's heartbeat, can hear the crackle of leaves underfoot as watchmen circle the Altean camp, can hear her own breathing through her lion's senses.

And this is what lets her catch the faintest strains of laughter—soft, melodic, vanishing almost as quickly as it comes, carried away by the faint night breeze. The voice is familiar, making her stir even as her lion raises its head from where it rests beside her and bares its teeth in a snarl. It's something that she should know well—something that should hold her attention.

But these thoughts slip through her fingers like sand, vanishing as quickly as the strange laughter. So she thinks little more of it, her eyes shutting, breaths evening out, and mind naming the voice as little more than a dream. And when she wakes the next morning, she's forgotten all about the strange sound, focusing instead on donning her armor and fixing on her mask.

She prepares for a fight that will not come.

\--- 

Narti, Ezor, Acxa, and Zethrid wait patiently outside his tent when Lotor emerges, his usual armor exchanged in favor of a black tunic with gold stitching. Rings rest on his fingers, and a silvery circlet on his brow, catching the morning light.Even the generals have exchanged their worn armor for those newly forged, sharp and unmarked. Nothing about their appearances would suggest anything but capability and bloodthirst, the blade of the axe strapped to Zethrid's back gleaming as though polished.

Acxa steps forward, holding out a scroll sealed with violet wax. "The contract is ready, sir," she says, and gives a short bow as the prince takes it readily from her hands, fingering the edge pale parchment as though he could see the contents inside.

"All is going according to plan, Narti?" he asks, glancing up from the scroll.

The spy gives a short nod.

Ezor flashes him a brilliant smile, wagging a finger as though chastising him. "We've done our parts, prince—what happens now is up to you."

Acxa bats Ezor's hand back to her side, hissing, "Be more respectful."

The coral-haired general just laughs.

Tucking the parchment into the belt at his waist, Lotor's smile matches Ezor's own, a knife-sharp edge to it making the generals smirk. "Then let's finish this quickly, hmm? No need to waste our soldiers when the Alteans will all be dead soon enough."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this marks the start of Lotor and Allura's soon-to-be developing friendship without seeming too sudden—I'm still not really certain for how long to draw out their fighting, but I think this ends the "wake-up-every-morning-to-try-and-kill-you" arrangement they've had for a while now! :D
> 
> If there's any questions about the world setting, I would be more than happy to answer them! I can even make a post on tumblr if that would be helpful, because, admittedly, I have almost no idea how this is going to go. But I do have a few plot points I want to reach, so hopefully I can do that!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading this chapter! If you see any errors or things that need to be fixed, please just comment and I'll try to fix it right away!
> 
> If there's anything specific you'd like in the next chapter (angst, bonding, one of the paladins making an appearance), comment and I'll definitely try to work it in!
> 
> If you want to chat about Lotura or cry with me over the chance that Lotor will betray the Paladins, my tumblr is @lotura-fics ^u^


	3. Chapter 3

The Galra prince is waiting outside the Altean council tent when Allura arrives, stalking forward with her lion at her heels to drive a finger into his chest.

"You," she hisses, leaning close enough that they are scarce inches apart. "How dare you come here speaking of peace when all our emissaries have been returned with slit throats. Do you think we are so desperate for peace as to ignore your past offenses, your challenge? Do you think I can't see your ploy?"

Lotor watches her through half-lidded eyes, daring to look amused at the princess's near tangible fury. Behind him, Zethrid holds Blue's gaze with a wicked smile, cracking her knuckles to make her intentions all the more clear as Acxa's hand slips to the broadsword hung at her side. The Altean guards outside the tent tense, flashing the generals warning glares, one even drawing her weapon and staring down a smirking Ezor.

No one speaks, hardly dares to breathe as they wait for a signal from their leader. The slightest misstep, and the Altean camp will dissolve into a bloodbath, years of tension and hatred mounting between them, making the atmosphere almost painful as they wait, prepared to strike.

But neither Lotor nor Allura show any signs of even seeing the confrontation around them, the deaths tallying even as they stare the other down. They see only the enemy before them, bright as a shooting star and just as fleeting.

"Princess!"

The guards and generals turn sharply as one to focus on the approaching figure, tension easing the slightest as the man reaches the group and pants, leaning heavily on his knees. "Just—heard the news!" he wheezes, ginger mustache heaving with each breath. "The Galra—wish to parley? Ha! I'd trust 'em half as far as I could throw 'em, the mangy, two-faced—"

"Such charming counsel you keep, Princess Allura," Lotor says coolly, making the ginger-haired man start, cheeks flushing a similar shade as his hair. "None so much as you, however."

"I could say the same, prince," she replies, her voice dangerously low. "You have such a way with words."

"Oh?" he asks, the slightest shade of surprise coloring his tone as he tilts his head to the side, curious. "Of such high praise I am sure to be undeserving."

"No," Allura says, and this close, he can see all the colors in her prism-like eyes, flecks of rose and sapphire catching the light. "I meant it, every word, for what is a clever little serpent without its silver tongue?"

Lotor's smile is cruel, a mockery of something beautiful. "Hear what I offer, princess, and perhaps you'll find out."

Allura's mouth presses into a thin line as, having regained the ability to speak, the mustached advisor calls weakly, "Princess, surely you can't be considering—"

Allura raises a hand, and the advisor's mouth snaps shut, cutting off mid-sentence with a frown. Her expression is sharp, unyielding, a stark contrast to Lotor's apparent amusement. His smile is steadily becoming smug, something distinctly feline in the expression, and the sentiment behind it is something she knows well.

The prince is certain he's won.

Allura almost laughs. For just a moment, he's forgotten who he is facing. He's forgotten who she is, what she can do. And Allura swears to make him pay dearly for it.

"Coran," she says, and the man reluctantly rises to attention.

"Yes, princess?"

Allura pauses, studying Lotor's expression, watching for the smallest change when she says, "Show our guests inside. Let us see what matters they would discuss."

The advisor grimaces, gaze cutting to where Ezor gives him a cheerful wink and Zethrid crows, openly gloating. He opens his mouth, reconsiders, closes it, and repeats twice more before dropping visibly and muttering, "Follow me."

Allura sympathizes with his hesitance, feels a hint of it herself even as she catches the slightest flicker in Lotor's expression as she steps back, the slightest shade of unfeigned emotion. It's something she has seen before only once, standing in Leech's Gulley, the space between the two camps, sword cutting a graceful line towards his neck as her lion lunged for his side, causing him to stagger and just barely dodge her swing. Recovering quickly, he had rolled to his feet, grabbing for the sword that had fallen from his hand as she'd advanced, swinging again with intent to kill.

She had thought she'd won, that at last she'd bested him.

And from the widening of his eyes, the panicked, almost animal unsteadiness of his motions, he'd thought so as well.

But here, far from the battle field, weapons sheathed and threats simply jagged words, seeing this emotion is...startling. Fascinating, even.

Allura keeps her expression carefully neutral as she leans in close again, murmuring, "Fear doesn't suit you well, prince."

Lotor's golden eyes blink once, twice, lips parting as though he would deny her statement, but for a long moment, no sound comes out. "The negotiations, princess," he seizes on at last, his obvious relief at the subject change making the corners of her lips curl up in the suggestion of a smile.

"Then come," she says, and turns on her heel brushing aside the opening and stepping inside, Blue matching her step for step as Lotor follows only a moment after.

\---

Lotor, like all Galra children, had been raised with a knife in his hand and the words "victory or death" engraved deep in his mind. On his seventh birthday, he began to learn to spar, the stances for swordplay, the killing blows that would make his role as a soldier so much easier. He was taught not to think, as his commanders would think for him. He was taught that blood purity was strength, that half-breeds were tainted with the weaknesses of other races.

And Lotor learned his lessons well. He fought like the others, ignored the slights, learned to kill with frightening skill. He was a soldier to be proud of, accomplished and remorseless.

But his greatest accomplishment was not earned in the sparring yards, called to him by instructors, or even in the classes that he learned the manners, conduct, and etiquette that would allow him to simply be passed over in court.

Lotor's greatest accomplishment was learning to read, for with it, he learned far beyond what his instructors had placed before him.

He learned of alchemy that spun ice, wove fire, hollowed mountains with its sheer power, of deities giving life to their continent through pouring down the darkness between the stars like black, black water, of hidden springs that held great power and of silver hares that granted wishes to those clever enough to catch them.

The start of the Altean and Galra war reminded him, in a way, of these stories—a calm, peaceful land, in which creatures of light and creatures of dusk are joined together. But one is tempted, one lusts for land, magic, a power terrible enough to shake the very world to its core. Villain and hero clash, the conflict escalating and escalating until it seems there is no hope at all.

But there is always hope for those that stand in the light, or at least this is what the stories would have him believe. There will always be a savior, a hero, someone chosen by fate itself to lead the people of light to victory.

Though the story of the Alteans and Galra is no fairytale, Lotor can see all these aspects in it.

There was a time when the continent was united, when the Galra and Alteans lived in peace, one ruler in the east, and one in the west. It was a time that knowledge was sacred, treasured, stored in the temples of alchemists and as honored as life itself. The Alteans looked to the sea for their livelihood, traveling to other continents, meeting new kingdoms, pulling monsters from its depths and learning to master the sea's shifting temperament.

The Galra, with the Lion's Maw ring of mountains surrounding their capital, looked to the earth for their trade, where rich metals in violet and scarlet and aquamarine were found. Forges were built across the land, metalworking revered among all their kind, as cities built purely of a brilliant, deep-violet metal were crafted, with rose-gold fae crystals casting a pinkish glow from where they hung from chandeliers and in sconces.

It was then that knowledge passed freely between the two cities, technology, fables, and fairytales, childish stories with childish endings that spoke of the five deities. Little was thought of their sharing.

But when the Galra emperor and his empress reached the very heart of the Lion's Maw, where the greatest of its treasures hid, the shadows found their home.

And for the fairytales they had so thoughtlessly shared, the land bloomed red with alchemist blood.

Here is where the story is nearly to its climax, where the villain runs rampant and good must cower. Here is where the hero steps in, blazing like the sun and rallying the people to fight against the evil. It may take years in a story to reach, years for the hero to realize the path destiny has set before them.

But Lotor knows well enough how this goes. He knows the hero can not be kept from their path, merely distracted, drawn away for a year, a day, before they flicker back to it again like a moth to a flame. 

Lotor isn't ignorant. He recognized the hero the moment he laid eyes on her, on the soft pink slashes across her cheeks and the pure hatred burning in her gaze. And he knows what it means to let the hero grow stronger and stronger, reaching out to their full potential, tapping into a strength that could rattle the stars.

He knows that, to live, she must die. But brute force has failed him, the instinct to fight and maim and kill doing nothing to slow her rise. He needs something better to keep from her path, something... clever. Something that will twist the story to his will, bend the written words that bind him to his fate.

Lotor knows what the princess wants most is peace—this is to be his bargaining chip, the distraction from his true plan. For a princess without her people is nothing.

And a hero without an army is dead where they stand.

This is why, as Lotor sweeps past the guards outside the council tent and hears one mutter, "Can't seem to get rid of my nerves today—hands just keep shaking," he allows the suggestion of a smile to flicker across his features, golden eyes gleaming.

He doesn't see how Coran watches, gaze sharp and mouth set in a thin line, waiting for the prince to falter for even a moment, for mere advisor or not, Coran would do anything for the princess, willing even to die for her.

He does not yet know that someday he will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally have a clear idea of where the fic is going, and I'm very worried that it's going to need 30 more chapters to fully develop their relationship :'D Hopefully the dialogue doesn't feel too forced this chapter, because I can't write flirting to save my life (please send help).
> 
> Comments and kudos make me super happy, and are 90% of my motivation—everyone who has commented before, thank you so much, your feedback has made me so happy! 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you liked the chapter! <3
> 
> Find me on Tumblr @lotura-fics


	4. Negotiations

A map of the continent is swept aside as Lotor sits across from Allura at the low-set table in the center of the tent, generals flanking him on both sides. Tapping one hand idly against the wood surface, he takes the scroll at his hip and sets it before him, satisfied to see the wax seal remains unbroken.

Coran's gaze latches on it immediately, and he rises quickly to his feet, asking, "The terms of the treaty?"

"Indeed," Lotor drawls, and hands it to Zethrid who passes it to the Altean advisor with an unsettling glower. Casting a quick glance about the tent (crowded desks pushed to the edges, bookshelves in the back with medicinal and historical texts, and a large glass bottle of thick, black ink resting on the ground beside them), Lotor asks, "Is all your council present, princess?"

"Two more will be joining," she says politely, ever the image of sophistication with a sword strapped to her back, bloodstains on her armor, and lioness at her feet. "Diplomats from the human continent."

"Oh?" Lotor raises a brow, tapping one gloved finger against his chin. "I was unaware Altean relations had progressed so far." He shakes his head, musing, "Their magic had always been called quite limited in our accounts of them—have they progressed enough to be of interest?"

Allura inclines her head as the quick staccato of footsteps become apparent, growing louder with each moment. "Judge now for yourself, prince," she says as the tent entrance is pushed to the side, two figures appearing in its place. The first is smaller than the one that follows, wearing an apprentice's blue tunic and a pale, white-gold sash. Short, choppy brown hair bobs low enough to just brush his shoulders as he bows, murmuring a soft, "Princess," as the man behind him quickly does the same.

With the same brown eyes and curious gaze, the connection is easy to see—the older man is simply a more aged version of the boy, with thick wire glasses and silvery hair stiff with gel. The two quickly take their places at the table, looking expectantly at the princess.

"And now what all parties are present," Allura says, voice impassive, "tell me, prince, what is it you offer?"

And now to put his plan fully into action.

Lotor opens his mouth to respond, starting, "An alliance between the Galra and Alteans would—"

An indignant squawk cuts him short, and Lotor turns to where the ginger-haired advisor is now taking deep breaths, face rapidly turning an alarming shade of red. Lotor does nothing to disguise the smirk he feels curve his features. 

"Perhaps, princess," he says smoothly, "your advisor would care to explain."

But Coran is already shaking his head, sharp exhale lightening his face to a pale pink. "Refused," he says primly, fighting the urge to tear up the document as he sets it on the table. His image of calm is ruined fully by the vein throbbing on his forehead. "The guards will show you out."

The shadows in the tent shiver, settling again when Lotor raises a brow, amused. "Does my proposal merit such little consideration?" he asks. His gaze shifts to Allura's, strangely earnest as he says, "Think carefully now, for it shall not be given twice."

The princess narrows her eyes, considering. "And just what is your proposal?"

The younger human loudly clears his throat at this, casting the princess a nervous glance. The scroll sits before him and what Lotor presumes to be his father, the older human still pouring over the script as the boy asks, "Permission to speak?"

Allura folds her hands, nodding. "Granted."

"Many thanks." The diplomat turns Lotor, brown eyes wide with what the prince takes to be fascination. "Your highness," he begins, "if I understand correctly, you intend to unite the kingdoms through marriage of the two eligible heirs, yes?"

Lotor watches the human with what might be equal curiosity, noting the curved shell of his ear, the dull, unpointed teeth. "It is my goal to join the Galra and Alteans in a way that cannot be refuted or brushed aside," the prince says. "My kind are proud, and will not easily back down from a fight. We need a physical reminder of the treaty if it is to last, something to keep hostility in check through a means that will reach both sides."

"Forgive me if I'm wrong, prince," the older man cuts in, peering at the scroll with a frown as he adjusts his glasses, "but you are not full-Galra, yes?"

Lotor blinks, a familiar shadow flitting across his gaze. "That is correct," he says flatly, feeling his generals bristle beside him as the man coughs into a hand, preparing to continue.

"If I understand correctly," the human says, "those who are not of pure Galra heritage are perceived differently in your culture, and given less sway within their rank. What is to say your kind will honor this agreement if they do not stand behind their representative? What would keep them from cutting their losses and continuing the fight in spite of the truce? Simply put, would they be able to defy their culture and be able to support a marriages of two beings they perceive as weak?"

Silence fills the tent as the boy gapes at his father, mouth opening and closing like a fish. Outrage is writ in each of Lotor's generals expressions as the prince in question curls his fingers against his palms, feeling the shadowy claws that form at their tips bite into skin.

Lotor imagines how they would feel biting into the diplomat.

Allura is the first to recover her wits, glaring as she turns to the human advisor. "Though poorly worded—" the man frowns, looking to his son who is still at a loss—"Dr. Holt presents a pressing matter of this treaty. The alliance needs to last—I and any child of the union would not be accepted by the Galra because of ancestry. What do you propose to solve this?"

Lotor makes no move to answer her, yellow eyes smoldering as feels the shadows in his veins writhe, hiss, eager to rise at his call.

He is used to slights at his heritage, used to the whispers that follow him everywhere he travels—and he was foolish for not expecting them here as well. It is his fault for allowing such a feee reign on his emotions, and on the shadows bound to them—now, it is all he can do to keep them caged.

When Lotor gives no response, Acxa rises, fists curled as though around the hilts of her knives. It is only by the laws of the parley that she doesn't draw them now and end the Altean council for good for their slight at her prince and her comrades. 

Leaning forward across the table, she stabs a finger at the older diplomat. "Listen well, human," she hisses. "My prince and us generals have earned our place a hundredfold, and have sacrificed more for our country than you ever will in your short, pitiful little lifetime. Don't you _dare _disrespect us, or on the day Altea falls, I shall see to it you die by my hand."__

__

__Ezor and Zethrid snarl their agreement, Narti's familiar growling low in its throat as the spy rises to stand by Acxa, the other two following suit. Seeing the human's startled look, Axca narrows her eyes, deeming the threat sufficient._ _

__

__Turning to the prince, she says, "Let us not suffer such insults, prince. Clearly they have no need of our good will, and who are we to deny them death if they are so eager for it?"_ _

__

__Lotor's gaze shifts from his hands to where his generals now gather beside him, burning with an almost blinding ferocity as they wait for his response._ _

__

__The shadows at his hands slowly dissipate, melting again to soft, liquid darkness as he rises to stand with them. Those in his veins calm with them, being lulled again to sleep, though he knows they will wake soon when the sun falls. "Bring your final answer to me before sunrise tomorrow, princess," Lotor says, gaze fixed pointedly away from her, "when you've had more time to discuss the terms."_ _

__

__Allura dips her head in acknowledgement, wary as the generals shift, restless. "Until then, prince."_ _

__

__Lotor turns, taking even strides to the entrance of the tent, humans watching him with bated breath. Only when he reaches it does he pause, head tilting back as he regards the diplomats coldly.__

__

__"Say prayers for your people, humans," he tells them, gold eyes narrowing to slits. "They'll need it after today."_ _

__

__And without another word, he strides out, Axca at his side and the others at his back._ _

__

__\---_ _

The message arrives after midnight, brought to his tent by a guard who only bows shortly and murmurs, "Vrepit Sa," before returning to his post.

Ezor watches Lotor curiously from where she sits cross legged on his desk, a curved knife in hand as she uses the blade to clean her nails. "So?" she asks as he turns from the tent's entrance and breaks the seal on then scroll, pouring over the writing with wide yellow eyes. Ezor squirms, itching with impatience as she leans forward to try and read the top section of writing. Giving up on the venture, she presses, "What did they say?"

Lotor's response is slow at first, a subtle shift that sends shivers crawling down Ezor's spine. The oil lamp beside her seems to flicker, sputtering as it threatens to burn out. Lotor lets the message fall to the desk as he reaches for the crystal decanter on his nightstand, pouring a glass of amber liquid and sliding it to Ezor. 

She catches it with one hand, cocking her head to the side. "Then they've agreed?" she asks, raising the glass.

Lotor holds up his own in a toast. "The ceasefire is effective at dawn," he says.

Ezor's smile comes sharp and wicked, a stark contrast to the mask she often wears. "To victory," she says simply.

"To victory," he echoes, and both drink.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now the Lotor-Allura bonding can begin! ^^ The next chapter will probably come out tomorrow, but only be a few paragraphs—after that, it may take a while as I started soulmate au as well, but hopefully it should be up in one or two weeks! The characters should start interacting a lot more now, and a couple new ones should be making appearances soon ^^
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! <3 I hope you enjoyed the new chapter!


	5. Understanding

"Doctor Holt," Allura says as soon as the messenger is sent off with her agreement, as her council members stand and stretch, Coran already heading off for the night as he slips out of the tent.

The diplomat pauses midstretch, turning to face her with a solemn gaze as his son pauses in gathering his books from the table, fumbling with one of the heavier textbooks. Eyes widening when he sees the princess's cold expression, Matt bites his lip, looking furtively between his father and the princess.

Allura offers him a small smile when he meets her gaze again. "Go, Matt Holt," she says lightly. "Your father will be fine."

The boy furrows his brow, eyes flicking again to his father before they harden, and he gives a quick nod. "Thank you, your highness." He hugs his books to his chest but pauses as he turns to leave, looking almost shy as he whirls about and gives his dad a quick hug. "See you back at camp, okay?"

Allura and Doctor Holt wait as Matt leaves the tent, calling out a greeting to the guards at its entrance as he passes, footsteps slowly fading away. A long moment passes as the scientist waits for Allura to speak, but the princess stays perfectly still and utterly quiet. The silence draws out, seeming to become something almost tangible as Allura watches the scientist with a thoughtful gaze. Doctor Holt meets it curiously, brown eyes bright as he waits.

Four more ticks, and Allura breathes in deeply, breaking the heavy silence.

"I understand the concerns you had about the treaty, doctor," she says at last, clasping her hands together and leaning forward, "but what you said of our guests was inexcusable."

The scientist blinks, mouth parting for just a moment before he visibly brightens with understanding, sweeping into a quick bow. "Apologies, princess. I did not mean to offend your guests."

"Of course not, doctor," she says smoothly, and stands, bones cracking in her legs and arms as she winces, turning her neck from side to side. "Your concerns were legitimate, but politics are not meant to be so simple and so—" she smiles, but it lacks any true mirth—"straightforward. Prince Lotor's heritage is of no concern to me. He has the respect of his soldiers and, if our reports are to be believed, a number of citizens willing even to support a revolution in his name within the Empire. The prince is admired by a number of his people for his actions in the war.

"But, doctor," she says, her tone sharpening. He watches as her eyes grow bright, the blue in them burning as her lioness rises from where she lays on the ground, watching the princess closely. "Lotor's heritage is irrelevant in this—the intentions behind his proposal are what we have to concern ourselves with. Understood?"

The scientist wavers only a moment before bowing again. "Of course, princess," he says. "I will see if Kolivan has any new information to report."

Allura nods, turning away to face the bookshelves of dusty maps and historical tomes, her eyes fading of their strange, blue fire. "Thank you, doctor."

"Of course," he repeats, hesitating a moment before adding, "Good night, princess."

"Good night."

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last chapter's Doctor Holt was really bothering me, so I wrote this chapter to try and better explain his actions and show Allura rebuking them—and now the Blade of Marmora has made a small appearance as a side note :D Hopefully their characters will be true to the show, but I'm not entirely sure what Kolivan is actually like... or Krolia for that matter...
> 
> Regardless, thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed the chapter (even if it was very short)! ^^


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting and a challenge.

“The Sorrel Plains?”

Lotor doesn’t bother to look up from the map sprawled out in front of him, eyes tracing over the tangle of rivers that spread out from the Altean capital. They weave out in slow, lazy curves meeting at last in the heart of the city, the Castle of Lions. “Need to remain under Galra control,” he says, gaze riveted to the black lines of the castle, to the city walls that encircle it. They curve about it in near perfect circles, once, twice. “Much of the Galra kingdom is mountainous, making good farmland that much more important.”

Allura leans forward, arms crossed. “It’s the site of an ancient Altean temple,” she insists.

“And currently under Galra control. Find something of equal value to exchange, or let it remain there. Our people worship deities much the same as yours, princess. Do not fear that the temple should be misused.”

Lotor returns his attention fully to the map as Allura gives a wordless sigh and leans her head back, pressing both hands to her forehead. Seven days since she signed the treaty—seven days since she agreed to a ceasefire, and already she wants to draw a blade on the prince just for the sake of _something _happening. With the boundary lines of the two kingdoms blurred near beyond recognition by the fighting, negotiating new ones and arguing over old ones is nothing short of excruciating. Perhaps before the war, she would have been able to last the long hours required by diplomacy, left to sit quietly, patiently. But the war has taken away whatever trait had allowed her to while away the time in silence, leaving the dead space to feel like static crackling in her ears, like lightning burning beneath her skin.__

__

__A hint of color flashes through her thoughts, a curious presence pressing against them. Blue. The lioness, having sensed Allura’s irritation from where she hunts outside the camp, again brushes against Allura’s thoughts. _(Safe?) _The image of Blue, claws unsheathed and fangs bared flickers across her vision. Blood stains the lioness’s fur, a wordless threat burning in her eyes.___ _

___ _

____(Safe), _Allura tries to send back, feeling the presence brush against her mind once more in comfort before fading into silence, leaving only the crackle of old parchment and scratch of a quill, too dull and too soft to chase away the static that fills her senses.__ _ _ _

___ _

___It’s still—far too still._ _ _

___ _

___On the battlefield, Allura is always moving, reacting, lashing out with her sword as Blue guards her back, the lioness’s strength flooding her limbs and blazing about her like cerulean fire. To be still is to invite death, to give fangs and claws to the reality that tears away at her piece by piece. Allura needs to be moving forward, pressing on—she needs to remind herself constantly just what she is: a princess leading her people into battle, not afforded the luxury of giving in to the past. To do so is to break._ _ _

___ _

___And it will take years to put herself back together after this, years not yet within her grasp._ _ _

___ _

___But with this treaty… they never will be. Queen beside an enemy king, always watching her back, always waiting for the inevitable betrayal._ _ _

___ _

___What is to become of her?_ _ _

___ _

___“Princess?”_ _ _

___ _

___Allura drops her hands, gaze flickering over to where Lotor sits across from her at the table, yellow eyes narrowed intently as they meet hers. “Yes, prince?” she asks._ _ _

___ _

___Holding up one hand, palm facing upward, Lotor says, “I’m afraid we’re both rather distracted princess.” His lips curve in the suggestion of a smile, vanishing all too quickly as his lashes dip low to brush his cheeks. “Perhaps it would be best to reconvene after a varga.”_ _ _

___ _

___The static in her ears seems to dim for just a moment at the word, body straightening as her mind seizes on the idea. “A varga?” she asks, forcing a hesitance she doesn’t feel. She taps her fingers against the wooden table, desperate for any sort of movement. “This treaty could potentially end the war. To delay it could be disastrous.”_ _ _

___ _

___“A fair point,” the prince says, pressing his hands together so the fingers interlock as he rests his hands on them. Slowly, ever so slowly, he smiles, revealing too-sharp canines that call to memory the image Blue had sent her—teeth bared, eyes flashing, fangs and claws promising a swift death. “Then, princess,” he says, keeping his voice low and even, “I challenge you to a battle.”_ _ _

___ _

___Pulse quickening at the prospect, Allura’s hand slips subconsciously to her side, fingering the knife at hip. The weapon eases out smoothly, silently, as she pulls it from its sheath, as eager for a fight as its holder. Allura licks her lips, saying slowly, “A battle.”_ _ _

___ _

___“Indeed.”_ _ _

___ _

___“Like the ones before?”_ _ _

___ _

___The prince nods, long hair falling across one eye with the movement._ _ _

___ _

___Allura presses her mouth into a thin line as Lotor brushes away the errant strand with a flick of his wrist, forcing her gaze to stay steady even as she asks, “Are you so eager to die, prince, by my hand? You've been lucky before, but will you gamble your life on luck alone?”_ _ _

___ _

___Lotor blinks once, twice, before giving a startled huff of laughter, leaning back from the table and letting his hands fall to his lap. “Impressive, princess. I look forward to seeing you match those words in combat.”_ _ _

___ _

___Allura rises, blood flow returning to her aching legs, before flashing the prince a knife-sharp grin. “Do not blame me, prince, when you see that I do—remember this match was your request when I hold a blade to your throat.”_ _ _

___ _

___Lotor only smiles._ _ _

___ _

___\---_ _ _

___ _

___Allura stretches one arm across her chest, holding it there with the other as she takes steady inhales, counting out to five before dropping the arm and repeating with the other. The limb gives an unpleasant groan of protest with the movement, and she pushes it further, heartbeat beating loud in her ears as she sizes up the prince across from her. “So, prince,” she calls, watching her opponent curiously from where he stands just inside the boundaries of the sparring ring, pulling his hair back from his face, “what are the rules?”_ _ _

___ _

___Lotor pauses in his work momentarily, neat braid pinched between two fingers as he considers her question a moment. “It would be best to not draw blood, with the peace tentative as it is,” he answers, his fingers working deftly as he weaves in the last strand and ties it off with a black ribbon, letting it fall back over his shoulder. “Have your opponent at your mercy, and you win—a blade to their throat, as you so eloquently said.”_ _ _

___ _

___Allura hums, arching her back and sighing as tension leaves her shoulders. Already, she can hear the murmur of curious voices, the tread of military boots against the soft ground as Altean soldiers begin to appear at the edges of the arena. The match may be friendly in name, but with animosity at a near all-time high between the camps, she cannot afford a loss to the Galra heir, nor can she allow any blow to fall upon her, lest she increase her people’s hatred towards their tentative allies. A draw, perhaps, would serve both their purposes well—but victory would satisfy hers best._ _ _

___ _

___Perhaps now, without her lion at her side and his generals lurking just out of sight, they will find themselves breaking free of the balance they’ve fallen into, perhaps proclaim the victor once and for all._ _ _

___ _

___Reaching up to grab the sword strapped to her back, Allura swings it once, twice, getting a feel for its balance once again as she wraps a hand about the leather-bound hilt. “Are you ready, prince?” she calls, letting it fall to her side, blade gleaming a bright silver so different from its usual scarlet._ _ _

___ _

___Lotor draws the sword at his side with a rasp, gaze locked on hers as he answers, “Ready, princess.”_ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is more setup than anything, but hopefully with this, I'll be able to get back into the main plot without feeling like I left huge gaps in the timeline :D Sorry this update took so long—I'm definitely not going to drop this fic, even if updates are slow. I really want to write the story all the way to the end (and hope I don't write myself into a corner :'D)
> 
> Also, I am so sorry about ( ) being used in place of italics, I have no clue what the code is for them on AO3—I'll definitely try to fix them once I figure it out!
> 
> Thank you for being so patient with me, and for reading the new chapter! I hope you liked it ^^


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